


Desperate Glory

by Riathel



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But Could Be Read As Such, Everyone Needs A Hug, Light Angst, M/M, Not TV Canon Compliant, Short One Shot, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 18:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19115479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riathel/pseuds/Riathel
Summary: The Great War has raged for just under a year. Crowley and Aziraphale meet, at the usual place, to discuss their futures.





	Desperate Glory

**20TH FEBRUARY 1915  
**

It was a crisp, February morning. St James’ Park was sleepy, redolent with dew-covered blossoms and a light frost upon the pond. The ducks were huddled together, very few bravely bobbing along the water. Fewer still were the people wandering the park. Those who did walked with a sense of urgency uncommon for such a sluggish month. The snow hadn’t fallen for days, but the ground crunched underfoot like slivers of cracked glass.

The new war building stood out like a dark, watchful monolith. More uncharitably, it was a thorn in the landscape. It stood aloof from the rest of nature, kept at bay by a spiked fence.

A man stood by the pond in a grey, double-breasted sack suit. Under his grey jacket, he wore a slightly rumpled grey waistcoat, white shirt, and blood red tie. His straw boater’s hat he held in one hand, twirling it around in absent circles. His outfit was too thin to be practical on such a frosty morning, but, if he was cold, he showed no sign.

Thin, black-tinted spectacles were pressed tightly against the bridge of his nose. If he had removed them, one might have noticed he was glaring at the war building, his mouth rigid with emotion.

“A wretched thing forlorn,” he said softly.

“I thought it was your design.”

The speaker was a primly dressed, blond-haired man in a white frock coat. It was fully unbuttoned. His neat, yellow double-breasted waistcoat peeked through, a gold watchchain tucked perfectly in one pocket.

“You think I’d make such an eye-sore?” Crowley asked, his words clipped.

Aziraphale smiled warmly, settling in next to his vigil by the waterside as if he didn’t notice the other man’s discomfort. “I meant you in a general sense. An archduke, or someone.”

“No. Another,” Crowley gestured sharply, angrily, “another human invention.”

“I just assumed…” Aziraphale trailed off. He continued when the demon was silent, still half-turned, watching the new barracks. “What brings you to London this time of year? Social visit?”

Crowley scoffed, his gaze darting to the angel. Aziraphale was looking serenely out on the pond. “That’s a genuine question?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, gently, “I thought you might be abroad.”

“Abroad where? The whole sodding world is at each others’  _throats_ ,” he spat the last word. “Not a good time for a  _vacation_.”

“I thought you might be in France.” At Crowley’s raised eyebrows, Aziraphale added: “Among the action.”

Whatever furious, strangled reply that curdled in Crowley’s throat was cut off by a thin, perilously righteous voice.

“Excuse me! Young man!” The woman was barely thirty, a white, high-necked dress pressing into her throat. She approached at speed, gave Crowley a curt once-over and stepped forward. “I think it’s disgusting,” she said, “a young man like you shirking from duty. Men - _good men_ \- are out there giving their lives on the fields and you waste your life away with pleasure and sin.”

“Madam–” Aziraphale tried to cut in. Crowley was silent.

“You should be  _ashamed_ of yourself,” she finished, coldly, and thrust a white feather into the top pocket of his jacket. With that, she was off.

The celestial beings were both quiet for several moments afterwards.

A duck bobbed in the water, looking for fish and coming up empty.

Eventually, Aziraphale stopped merely shooting him concerned glances, and said, “My dear–”

“Don’t,” Crowley snapped, frosty and restrained. He plucked the white feather out of his pocket and twirled it around in his free hand. “Isn’t it just what you were saying? I should be, what was it, ‘among the action’?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” murmured Aziraphale, but it was weak. He had meant it, when he had said it, he just hadn’t realised how overcome the other man was with the thought of it. “It’s not as if you’re being forced to,” he added, overcome with the weight of the silence himself.

Crowley laughed. It was not a happy sound. “Haven’t you heard? The brave young men volunteering to die for  _pro patria_ aren’t  _enough_. They don’t have  _enough_ soldiers.” He was looking out at the pond as he spoke, but his glasses had fallen down the bridge of his nose with the force of the woman pushing past him earlier, and his gold eyes were alight with mania. “They’ll start conscriptions, soon. Mark me on that.”

“We could…” Aziraphale began and stopped. “You could run away.”

Crowley hadn’t noticed his abortive start of a sentence. He stood, turning the feather this way and that in quick, jerky movements.

“There are some places that aren’t affected,” Aziraphale continued. “I mean, surely - Australia? Oh. No. Well.” He cast about for another country. “Iceland!” he concluded. “You could go to Iceland. I’ve heard it’s… well. It’s something.”

“No,” Crowley said softly.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, equally as soft. “Well. Denmark in general?”

“No, as in - I’m not running away.” He stopped twirling the feather and put his straw hat on his head. “They’re all up here,” he added, bitter as arsenic, “Hastur. Ligur. Even Beelzebub has made a visit to gawk at humanity’s grand stage show.” He paused, as if waiting for the angel to say something, then continued: “They’re expecting me to be there.”

The unspoken lay between them:  _I thought you hadn’t, otherwise I would be already._

Aziraphale sighed, placing his hands in his pockets. “My dear,” he said and, for want of anything more profound, proferred: “I’ll still be here, after it all.”

Finally, he drew Crowley’s attention. The gold glints turned on him, the pupils dilating in mild curiosity.

“You aren’t called there too?”

The angel tilted his head. “Called?”

“To the hospitals,” Crowley said as if he were a particularly slow child. “The wounded. The dying. To help them. We commend to your keeping, O Lord, the soul of your servant, et cetera.”

“Er,” said Aziraphale. “I hadn’t – well. I hadn’t… You mean… leave London? I'm terrible with... those sorts of things. You know that.”

Crowley turned to him fully, his mouth parted. “You had no intention of doing anything?” It was a flat question, half-rhetorical, half-incredulous. “People are  _dying_  in their  _thousands_ ,” he snapped, suddenly sharp and cold, “And you were going to, what - hide in your book shop and wait for the machine guns to stop firing?”

The angel flinched, but said heatedly, “So what if I was? Is it a crime? I hardly look like a young man. I’m in no fit state for a battlefield.” He was very aware of Crowley’s gaze, even as the other shoved his sunglasses up to cover his serpent eyes. “People die all the time without either of our interference.”

A white feather suddenly bloomed in the button-hole of Aziraphale’s frock coat, where his carnation had once been. Crowley threw his own on the ground.

“My _pleasure_. It’s a good look for you,” he said nastily, turned on his heel and left before Aziraphale could say another word.

The wind turned to ice abruptly, leaving the angel standing, alone, by the frigid water of St. James’ Park, the white feathers shivering and bending.

“I’m tired,” he said quietly to an adventurous duck who was examining him for a crust. His bright face was dulled to an ashen mask. “I don’t like blood. I don’t like fighting.” The duck quacked at him, unimpressed by his lack of bread.

With a last, long look at the black figure stalking across the park, Aziraphale set out slowly in the opposite direction towards Pall Mall. As he walked, his direction began to change, until he was walking, like a prisoner towards a hangman, towards Westminster Bridge.

Towards the hospital.

Towards war.

**Author's Note:**

> References:
> 
> Crowley's muttered little aside of the building being, "A wretched thing forlorn," is a quote from William Wordsworth's poem The Thorn which you can read in its beautiful entirety here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52996/the-thorn-56d231ea9f8d9
> 
> Pro patria is Latin meaning "for the fatherland" and is a reference to Dulce Et Decorum Est, a poem by Wilfred Owen (that I'm pretty sure hadn't been written as of 1915 but hey. Shhh. Shhhhhhh.) The title is also a reference to the same poem.
> 
> My justification for all this:
> 
> Crowley is a gay poet, you can never argue this point with me, okay. Read the book. He just comes up with a reference to a poem on the fly while driving to death in the Apocalypse? Yeah sure, nerd.


End file.
